Do you search for me by day, your gaze scanning each bustling and haunting scene, your eyes hunting for a glimpse, roaming to the rhythm of the hunger coursing in your throbbing flesh and pounding veins?

Do you wake in the dead of night, your gleaming body sculpted from our monochrome dreams, yearning to find my sensual softness by your side, longing to feel my wanton desire arching back into your heat?

A look, a word, a touch. The switch flicked. My mind and desire taken from demure to wanton in three short beats, each gesture melting away my reticence and modesty, spreading me shamelessly wide open to our erotic game. With every sensual thought and carnal fantasy growled from your lips, my
body cries its hunger, my scarlet need drips its craving for revelation, for consummation, for my tongue on your burnished heat, for the grind of your hips, for the taste of our ravenous kiss, for your seed buried deep, for your breath as it etches pathways across this fair skin to my most licentious and sinful want.

I could gently glide my lips, impatiently run their peaks across your ready flesh for a thousand years and never truly know you.

You will forever be an enigma; the secrets and mysteries, the temptation my hands and tongue and mind and molten cunt hunger to grasp for the briefest of moments, to savour and remember your flavours, to etch the passions that seethe and live inside you into every sacred and gleaming place, even as this knowledge absolute is denied us.

Even as that refusal flickers across this delicate skin, binds me to your body, inspires a boundless craving few will ever touch or comprehend.

It took scarcely a moment, at the most maybe two, before I knew in the pit of my stomach, in the marrow of my bones, in the wet and hungry heat screaming between my legs, there would be no fooling either one of us.

From our very beginning, from the utterance and the brilliance of the first few words growled from your lips with a ravenous possession, I knew you couldn’t – you shouldn’t – be duped into believing your seductive eroticism inspires anything but the craving for your irrational and urgent passion, the craving for the destruction of the line between my want and need.

Because with you, that line is fine.

Most days, it is nothing more than a delicate chain, a series of tantalisingly fragile links you could easily crush and destroy, even as you wind it – and me – with measure and precision around your finger, place us gently into your palm, reducing the space between your clothed form and my nakedness, between my breath and yours, between the rough kiss and the hollow of hips, between this melting softness and your raw hardness, between the woman of wanton strength and the submissive crying out to pleasure you on her knees.